Sweeping Away
by theangrypeanut
Summary: Dirk Creswell has been captured, and he and his fellow prisoners are on their way to Azkaban. He has only a few moments to escape, and the watchful eye of the Death Eater-controlled Ministry is making that incredibly difficult. But then, a familiar face comes to give him a hand. Written for the IWSC Round 2.


**A/N: Here's my submission for the International Wizarding School Championship writing competition, round 2. Hope you like it! :) **

**Story Title: **Sweeping Away

**School and Theme: **Beauxbatons, Department of Magical Law Enforcement

**Main Prompt: **[Genre] Crime

**Additional Prompts: **[Occupation] Auror, [Character] Percy Weasley

**Year: **3 (Exchange)

**Wordcount: **1,815

* * *

The Ministry of Magic was quiet, the usual bustle of the underground building muffled by the Dementors lurking in the corners. The occupants stared at the ground, glancing up every so often as they quickly made a beeline for their destination, not wanting to be near the black holes any longer than strictly necessary. It had been this way for nearly two months, and every day, it grew darker and darker.

In the bowels of the Ministry, a group of Aurors and Magical Law Enforcement officials led a long line of convicts toward a private Floo Network. The soon-to-be prisoners had all been removed from their holding cells and were on their way to a middle-ground location, where they would be processed before being carted off to Azkaban.

The criminals, all of whom were Muggle-borns and blood traitors, were either nervously glancing toward the Aurors or staring dejectedly toward the floor. One of them, however, stood stoically, calmly taking in his surroundings.

"Oi, Creswell," hissed a voice from behind. Dirk Creswell moved his head ever-so-slightly to the side to acknowledge his fellow captive. "You got a plan or what?"

"I'm working on it," Dirk whispered back.

"Well, work harder," the man behind him said. "We don't have much time left."

"You're welcome to come up with a plan yourself, Alderton," Dirk replied, his voice calm as ever despite the imminent incarceration he was facing. His eyes shifted from one end of the long corridor to the next, desperately searching for any way out. Above them was a large glass ceiling – too high. The path to the right led to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – crawling with Aurors, too risky. The path to the left led to the Courtrooms – heavily guarded, no way out.

"Bollocks," Alderton said with a shaky breath. "We haven't got a chance. It's over. We're done."

"Never you fret. Just give me a minute. And be ready."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure yet." He snapped his mouth shut at the feeling of a wand sticking into the side of his neck.

"I don't believe I gave you permission to speak," came a gruff voice. Dirk stayed silent, and the wand disappeared.

The man standing beside him, Travers, tucked his wand into the sleeve of his cloak and returned to idly looking around the room. He was meant to be guarding them, but he didn't appear to be too worried about an escape attempt. After all, they were a bunch of wandless Muggle-borns who'd been starved for the past few days: not exactly a fearsome lot.

Dirk knew Travers, knew that he was a nasty one. Not only had he murdered countless wizards, witches, and muggles alike, but he had been imprisoned in Azkaban for nearly fifteen years. There was no telling what that had done to his psyche. Even if Dirk managed to find a way out, unbind himself, unbind Alderton, and escape the watchful Aurors, there was no way he could get past Travers. Not without a wand.

Slowly, the line moved forward, and Dirk was one person closer to a life of imprisonment. Then, a lifeline. Down the hallway came a grubby-looking man, dressed in typical Auror robes and holding a broom. Dirk recognized him immediately as Dawlish, one of the most incompetent Aurors – and wizards, for that matter – he'd ever met. With Dawlish's idiocy, that took care of the Travers problem. Now, how to actually get out? Dirk locked eyes on the broom. That was it; his ticket out of here. The pieces were in place. All he had to do was put his plan into action.

"All right, Travers?" Dawlish asked, slapping Travers on the shoulder.

Travers let out a noncommittal grunt, glancing at the spot Dawlish had just touched, clearly unimpressed.

"Transporting some prisoners, eh? Bad luck," Dawlish said, letting out a nervous chuckle. "I've just gotten back from a raid, myself. Found a bunch of blood traitors hiding out in an abandoned cabin outside of Hogwarts. Bloody filth, eh? Defending those Mud-bloods."

Dirk got the distinct impression that the man was only saying what he thought Travers wanted to hear. It was smart of him, in a way, to try to get on the good side of the group in control of the Ministry. _But, Merlin, have a backbone, will you? _

"So, what's this lot in for?" he continued.

Travers perked up slightly, suddenly interested in the conversation now that he had the chance to show just how important he was. "That one there—" —he pointed to a man toward the front of the line— "—tried marrying a pureblood. Thought it'd save him. And this one—" —he pointed to Dirk— "—tried forging his papers. Bloody fool, innit?"

Dawlish let out a laugh that was just a bit too loud and lasted just a bit too long. "Nothing gets past the Ministry."

"Excuse me," came a voice from down the hallway. "Auror Dawlish."

He turned, coming face to face with a lanky redhead. "Ah, Weasley, what is it?"

Dirk snapped his head to the side at the mention of the name. There he was, Arthur's boy – what was it, Patrick? Perry? He could never remember. Too many Weasleys, if you asked him. But he knew him. He'd had many dinners at the Weasley's Burrow, and he recognized him as the serious one of the boys. The one who never really smiled and always seemed rather disagreeable.

"You forgot these," Weasley said, handing Dawlish a stack of papers. "And Head Auror Yaxley would like to see you in his office. He heard about the raid. He…didn't seem pleased."

"Bollocks," Dawlish cursed under his breath. Beside him, Travers sniggered.

"Bad luck, eh, Dawlish?" he said sarcastically and pulled a mock-sympathetic face, which Dawlish foolishly interpreted as real.

"It wasn't my fault. That fool Runcorn mucked it all up."

As Dawlish began a tirade of excuses, Weasley idly glanced at the long line of Muggle-borns, steadily shrinking as they stepped through the Floo. His eyes landed on Dirk, and his face went pale. Dirk nodded minutely, and Weasley swallowed.

"Creswell," Alderton whispered again. "We're almost at the front. You got a plan or not?"

Dirk sighed. He had a plan, sure, but no way to execute it. He glanced around the room once more in an attempt to kickstart his escape, but it was becoming increasingly clear that there was no way out of it. He had no wand, a murderous Dark wizard two metres away, and no way to get that broom.

As he turned his head to whisper back to Alderton, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Weasley stood beside Dawlish, rubbing his arm and shifting back and forth. Dirk frowned. He'd known the boy for a good while and, while he couldn't quite remember his name, he'd never known him to fidget. He watched as the boy slowly inched away from Dawlish – no, not away, behind him.

A moment later, he coughed, and Dawlish stopped speaking midsentence. Travers looked up at the sudden silence.

"What's with you?" he asked.

Dawlish looked around, blinking wildly. "I…what was I saying? Erm…oh, dear, I seem to have forgotten."

Travers narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Dawlish's sudden change in demeanour. Just as he was opened his mouth to speak, Weasley stepped from around Dawlish.

"Mr Travers," he said. "I wondered if I might have a word. It's about the Muggle-born Registry. I think I may have some information that might be useful to you."

Travers snapped his head to Weasley, completely forgetting his interest in Dawlish's strange behaviour. "Well, spit it out, Weasley."

"Perhaps we could speak in private," Weasley said, glancing back at Dirk. He leaned in and whispered, "Don't want the Mud-bloods to overhear."

Travers grunted in agreement, and the two of them stepped away, not far from the line but far enough for Dirk to see a window of opportunity. And he'd be damned if he wasn't going to take it.

Blood pounding in his ears, he summoned all of his strength and muttered the counter-curse to unbind his hands. Moving quickly but silently, knowing that he only had seconds before he'd be spotted by the other Autors, he lunged at Dawlish, who staggered dazedly into the wall. Grabbing the broom in one hand and the wand in the other, with no resistance from the sorry-excuse for an Auror, he shot a spell to unbind every hand in the line. In an instant, the corridor was filled with excitement as the prisoners scurried this way and that, each of them trying desperately to find an escape, while the Aurors scrambled to recapture the convicts that were not sprinting toward freedom.

Travers quickly bolted down the hallway toward the commotion, wand out and pointed directly at Dirk. Dirk hurriedly mounted his stolen broom and shot into the air, with a blast of light hot on his tail. Spell after spell followed him, singeing the back of the broom and even nicking his shoulder, but he continued to zip through the air.

As he flew, he scanned the ground, searching for Alderton. He found him running toward the exit and flew toward him, arm outstretched to grab him. Before he could reach him, however, the older man was shot with a green flash, collapsing on the ground in a heap.

Dirk cursed, feeling a stinging behind his eyes, but he didn't have time to consider what had just happened to the man who'd been a dear friend for so many years. Still avoiding the barrage of spells being shot at him, he switched gears, turning abruptly and leaving Alderton's corpse behind. He raced toward the glass ceiling, pulling out Dawlish's wand.

"_Expulso!_" he shouted, squeezing his eyes tightly and crouching into the broom as the glass shattered into a million pieces. As he shot through the broken ceiling, a shard slashed through his shoulder, drawing blood and sending a flash of pain through his arm. Behind him, he heard the continued shouting as the Aurors and Muggle-borns fought for control.

A moment later, he was out, flying through the air above London. He looked back, but the spells had stopped. Below him, he could see the tiny cars slowly piddling through the streets. He was sure he'd be spotted by more than a few muggles, a once-grievous crime, but frankly, he didn't give a toss about that right now. He was out. He'd escaped Azkaban for the moment. And he was going to keep it that way.


End file.
